


Not Coming The Raw Prawn

by Euphoric_Mandelbulb



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst and Humor, Food, Food Horror, Gen, Harm to Animals, Past Child Abuse, Trigger Warning: Wriggly Food, Verbal Abuse, Young!Arthur Whump, mild physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphoric_Mandelbulb/pseuds/Euphoric_Mandelbulb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Shappey has a Madeline Moment. (Not that he'd understand the reference.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Coming The Raw Prawn

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-"St Petersburg", pre-"Yverdon-Les-Bains". 
> 
> Spoilers – ranging from slight to major - for "Gdansk", "Limerick", "Qikiqtarjuaq", "Newcastle", "Ottery St Mary", "St Petersburg" and "Yverdon-les-Bains". (Especially "St Petersburg".) [Later note: Zurich-compliant.]
> 
> Rated T for not-very-graphic moderate physical and emotional child abuse, mildly disturbing and/or disgusting content, and not-very-graphic moderate animal cruelty.
> 
> Not beta'd, because I have no beta :-( Did not need Britpicking, because I *am* British :-)

 

** ***NOW*** **

  
The entire staff of MJN Air sat along a bench in the airport's Food Court, finishing their dinners: Arthur had been entranced by a pizzeria offering both kebab and duck as toppings, which led to five minutes of agonising until Carolyn had reluctantly (since she would be sharing the damn thing with him) pointed out the “choose your own toppings” option; Douglas had found a passable sushi restaurant; Martin had planned to claim that he wasn't hungry, realised that nobody would believe him, and quietly panicked until Arthur had innocently insisted that Martin and Douglas should try a slice of the pizza each.  
  
Now, Carolyn was sending her earlier photo of the pizza to Hercules, having edited it to bring out the shine of the grease, while Arthur experimented with how far he could make the mozzarella stretch. Martin was staring out of the window at a Gulf Stream taking off, and Douglas was poking half-heartedly at a hosomaki.  
  
“Well, I'm stuffed,” Douglas eventually declared, leaning back and looking immensely satisfied. “Who wants these last few sushi?”  
  
Martin glared at his First Officer, then turned away and defiantly folded his arms. He wasn't falling for that one - Douglas would take _any_ opportunity to claim that a massive favour was owed him.  
  
“Not hungry, Martin? I suppose your stomach is withering from disuse. Carolyn? Fancy a turn as the Beta Dog?”  
  
Carolyn scowled. “You bought that sushi with your pay, _I_ pay you, therefore I, the _Alpha_ Dog, am responsible for providing that hearty beast. And quite frankly, they all look utterly revolting.”  
  
“Well, Omega Dog, it appears that the remains of the carcass are yours.”  
  
“Brilliant, thanks Douglas!”  
  
Arthur peered at the sushi with great interest. He rarely got a chance to look at Douglas' favourite food (because Douglas had more sense than to let Arthur anywhere near his food if he could possibly help it), and was fascinated by the colours and shapes. He went for the one with the intriguing stripy thing on top of it.  
  
Carolyn tried to stop him, to the bemusement and then alarm of Douglas, but was a moment too late. Arthur's enthusiastic chewing slowed, his face turning blank and withdrawn.  
  
“Does Strawberry Drill apply to prawns, Carolyn?”  
  
“Hmm? What's going on?” asked Martin, whirling round upon hearing the emergency code with a look of panic (well, more panic than usual).  
  
“It's not Strawberry Drill, imbecilic pilots – if he looks swollen to you, you're clearly too delusional to fly. Arthur just... _shouldn't_ eat raw prawns. He wouldn't have if he'd recognised it.”  
  
“I'm... sorry, Carolyn.”  
  
“You couldn't have known, Douglas. We _never_ talk about it.”  
  
“Is he all right, Carolyn? Does he need to-”  
  
“He'll be fine, Captain Headless Chicken. He's having a bit of a Madeline Moment - he'll be terrifyingly quiet for about half a minute, until he sees something “brilliant”. Actually, Martin, your hat might do the trick...”  
  
  


** ***AUSTRALIA, 1987*** **

  
After two weeks of visiting Gordon's many friends and being dragged around their expensive toys (during which Arthur had broken only three valuable items, though this had more to do with Carolyn's improved reflexes than any increase of Arthur's self-restraint), Gordon had declared that the family were going out “for a treat” on this final night of the holiday.  
He'd driven them to the far side of the city, then led them on a half-mile walk through darkened high-end residential streets to a rather dubious-looking back alley, where a door bore a discreet sign declaring this outwardly-nondescript building to be “The Dancers – Exclusive Japanese Cuisine”.  
  
A friend-of-a-friend of Gordon's had apparently been inspired while on holiday in Japan and had used some of his not-inconsiderable fortune to follow his whim, complete with entirely Japanese staff. Gordon was using this last fact as an excuse to shout patronisingly slowly at the waiters (even more so than he did at Arthur), despite their command of the English language being greater than his own.  
In-between the bellows, he was expounding on how “some namby-pamby vegetarian sheep-huggers are trying to get this sorta thing banned. They'd have us all eating nothing but soy, they would; wouldn't appreciate fine cuisine if it hit them in the face!”  
  
Arthur flinched slightly at Gordon's turn of phrase, even as he continued to look around the room in awe; Carolyn scowled but held her tongue, mentally chanting _only nine more years, only nine more years_ : in nine years' time, Gordon wouldn't be able to take Arthur away from her when she divorced him.  
  
This wasn't the sort of restaurant which would ordinarily admit children, but enough money had evidently changed hands to bend the rules with its weight – although they were tucked into a back corner behind a potted plant, away from other patrons.  
  
“Look Mum! A fish tank! Can I go and play with them? Please Mum? Please please please?” squealed Arthur, beaming delightedly.  
  
“Not just now, Arthur. Keep your voice _down_ and sit _still_ , will you!” Carolyn chided, not having the heart to tell her son that those fish would be on plates by the end of the night.  
  
“Right, I've ordered us a starter to share; no need for you to struggle with the foreign menu, darling,” Gordon smirked.  
  
“The menu which is in _English_?” (and is comprehensible to _you_ therefore ridiculously simple, she thought).  
  
Gordon glowered, and Carolyn turned her attention to retrieving the pencil-grippers from her bag and slotting them onto Arthur's personal extra-thick chopsticks. (After a couple of Chinese takeaways which had ended with tears before bedtime, Carolyn had bought these useful gadgets and spent almost every evening since persuading Arthur to play Jenga using chopsticks to stack the pieces. It had taken a few years off her life, but he was now mostly competent with them – though it was still best to order him the sauce-free dishes.)  
  
Their waiter returned, bearing a tray upon which reposed a covered platter and a flask.  
  
“Right, Arthur – _Arthur_! Stop gawping all slack-jawed like you're one o' them fish in that tank! Just 'cos you're a gormless little twit doesn't mean you have to _look_ like a fart in a trance! Anyway, this should be a bit o' fun for us, get the blood pumping, make you feel manly... if that's possible, you little mummy's boy. Caro, when I say 'now', you lift the cover and I'll pour the Jap wine!”  
  
“Gordon, are you _seriously_ suggesting that we feed our _eight-year-old_ son something containing _sake_? Which, in case you hadn't _bothered_ to find out, is _strongly_ alcoholic!”  
  
“Quit your fussing, at his age I was having a beer with my dad on Saturdays. Mind you, at his age I could _spell_ 'beer'...”  
  
Arthur hung his head. He'd been so proud of his picture of his family's favourite dinners, which even Carolyn had to admit did look like a lot of (wonky) circles and squares (plus one triangle). Gordon had roared for an hour – not because of Arthur's lack of artistic ability (as if Gordon would care about a “sissy” skill like that), but because he'd somehow managed to spell every single word incorrectly. Except, unsurprisingly, 'Toblerone'.  
Arthur had been locked in his room for the evening, under strict instruction to learn how to spell the words which his dad had written on a piece of paper and pinned to his wall.  
(He didn't, despite Carolyn investigating a noise at 5am and finding that he'd stayed up all night trying to memorise them. Gordon nearly had an aneurysm, and Arthur ended up with a black eye which contained the faint outline of a ring-pull.)  
  
“Anyway, ready...”  
  
“Get set!” Arthur chipped in, beaming with pride at his feat of recollection.  
  
“DID ANYONE ASK FOR YOUR INPUT?!” Gordon yelled. Arthur's face fell, and he gave a little sigh.  
  
“ _As I was saying_ before I was so RUDELY interrupted: ready... NOW!”  
  
Carolyn reluctantly lifted the cover, dreading to think what was underneath, and Gordon enthusiastically drenched the dish in sake.  
To Carolyn and Arthur's disbelief, the dish contained a pile of prawns – which, upon application of sake, had begun to hop about and wave their various legs and feelers.  
  
“Ugh. Gordon Shappey, you are clinically insane if you think that I am going to consume something with that many appendages, never mind while it's still moving. It looks like _bait_.”  
  
Gordon wasn't listening (which was probably just as well). “Come on, chop chop, don't wanna have to chase them across the room!” He started to snatch up and eat the liveliest prawns with a predatory air that verged on animalistic.  
  
Arthur was staring in pure delighted surprise at the writhing prawns, evidently under the impression that his earlier request to play with the sea creatures had been granted.  
Carefully, using his chopsticks, he picked up six prawns one-by-one and lined them up under his other hand. Then he let them set off across the table, keeping them “on track” with his chopsticks and providing a running commentary:  
“And they're off! Sunburnt Skier in the lead, that's Sunburnt Skier with, er, Strawberry Mousse close on his tail, then Finger, then... Toothpaste, with, um, Flamingo and... hmm... Rabbit Eye neck-and-neck in the rear – do prawns have necks?” he mused to himself.  
  
'Finger' exploited Arthur's moment of inattention to leap onto Gordon's hand, which was by now clenched into a fist.  
  
Gordon, moving with very deliberate calm and precision, laid a folded napkin over his other hand, then suddenly scooped up the “runners” and rammed them into Arthur's mouth, clamping his hand tight over his son's face while the boy gagged and spluttered.  
  
Carolyn was _very_ tempted to beat her husband over the head with the dish-cover (and see which made the more hollow clang), but settled for her patented “this will be discussed at full volume later tonight” laser-glare. Arthur's behaviour may not have been commendable, and certainly not suited to an exclusive restaurant, but he was a bloody _child_! _And_ he'd actually remembered something which he hadn't even been directly taught, merely overheard whenever Gordon watched the races at a stupidly high volume.  
  
She sighed, and leant over to whisper in Arthur's ear as her son trembled, sobbed and turned red. “Arthur dear, chew as fast as you can and then swallow. It's the only way to get it over and done with. I'll give you a Toblerone later to take the taste away.”  
  
Arthur looked heartbroken, but obediently chewed rapidly. Unfortunately, he attempted to swallow rapidly as well, leading to a lot of coughing and choking. Carolyn banged him on the back and he eventually quietened.  
  
“Right, you worthless little shit-for-brains,” snarled Gordon, flinging the filthy napkin onto the floor. “We are going to have a _word_ in private.” He grabbed Arthur by the arm and dragged him – quite literally, the child's feet barely touched the ground – into the disabled toilet, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Carolyn dropped her head into her hands in despair as the muffled sounds of high-volume vitriol  
( _“You are the most stupid, thoughtless, feckless, moronic little arsewipe I have ever met in my LIFE!_ ”),  
desperate sobs  
(“ _Sorry Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I didn't realise -”_  
“' _I didn't realise! I didn't THINK 'cos I NEVER bother to fucking THINK 'cos I'm a THOUGHTLESS LAZY SELFISH IDIOTIC BRAT!_ ' _**WHAT ARE YOU?**_ ”  
“ _Er... lazy, stupid... selfish, erm... idiot, um... er..._ ”) _  
_ and occasional strikes  
(“ _This is EXACTLY my point, literally TWO SECONDS later you don't remember a SINGLE BLOODY WORD I said to you! Are you deaf, stupid or just doing this on purpose to annoy me?_ ”  
>thwack<  
“ _NOBODY who can walk and talk and wipe their own backside is THAT fucking stupid, and you're not deaf, so I can only conclude that you're doing this DELIBERATELY because you are a DESPICABLE LITTLE SHIT!_ ”  
>thwack<  
_“Take your hands away from your face... I said TAKE YOUR HANDS AWAY! Now stand up... STAND UP AND TAKE WHAT'S COMING TO YOU, YOU PATHETIC LITTLE COWARD!_ ”  
>thwack<)  
drifted through the door.  
Then she composed herself, sat up ramrod straight, and began to collect the remaining prawns (many of which were now several feet across the floor) and return them to the dish. She then picked up and perused the menu, her eyebrows rising as she realised the restaurant's gimmick.  
  
Eventually, Gordon and Arthur emerged from the lavatory cubicle. Arthur's face was flushed (ironically enough) and sporting yet _another_ set of square bruises – one of these days that bloody ring was going to _break_ the boy's cheekbone, and then they'd have some explaining to do every time they went through airport security.  
  
Arthur scuttled to his seat and sat bolt upright, his hands folded awkwardly in his lap. Gordon calmly strolled back to the table, looked at the barely-twitching prawns in disgust, and bellowed, “ _GAR_ _Ç_ _ON!_ ” at the nearest waitress.  
Carolyn allowed herself an inward chuckle at his display of ignorance, while slipping a hand round behind Arthur's chair and gently rubbing her son's back – partly to reassure him, and partly to ensure that Gordon hadn't done anything _too_ awful. (Of course he wouldn't – the blood would seep through Arthur's shirt, Gordon would never show himself up like that... unless perhaps if he were too angry to think about the consequences...)  
Arthur initially flinched from the contact, but slowly settled into his mother's touch, and his back proved to be uninjured.  
  
“Arthur and I will share the dancing-squid rice bowl,” Carolyn began to inform the waitress (at least _that_ , if the description was to be believed, was _technically_ dead – and she could let Arthur have the vegetables and rice).  
  
“No, no, no! What's the pointa coming here if you're gonna order the dead stuff, you stupid cow?” laughed Gordon. “Ignore my wife, she don't know fine dining, what with growing up in the worse bit of England. Nah, we'll have a lobster each, and make 'em snappy!” He roared with laughter at his own feeble joke, while Carolyn growled under her breath. “Oh, and I'll need a fresh napkin – used mine up catching prawns,” he added, pointing to the discarded napkin on the floor. The waitress nodded and beckoned a cleaner, before taking the dish of prawns and striding off to the kitchens.  
  
Five minutes later – during which Gordon had twice yelled at waiters to go and find out what was taking so long – the waitress hurried back with three more platters.  
The lobsters were, as Carolyn had anticipated, still moving (their antennae, anyway) – though she hadn't honestly expected their shells to be split open for ease of access. Arthur's eyes boggled in complete and utter disbelief, tears resuming their earlier exodus.  
  
Carolyn, maintaining eye contact with Gordon throughout, shoved her chopsticks through her lobster's head and wiggled them around until it stopped moving, then moved to do the same to Arthur's. Gordon's expression, however, defeated even her extreme courage (and obstinacy), so she merely raised her hand and very politely asked the resultant waiter for fresh chopsticks.  
  
Gordon gobbled several chopstickfuls of lobster, then noticed Arthur's continued stillness.  
“Listen, you ungrateful little sod,” he hissed, “you either eat that bloody lobster or I ram it down your throat with the shell on, do I make myself clear?”  
  
Arthur nodded in terrified silence, picked up his chopsticks and, very reluctantly, started to pull a piece of flesh out of his lobster. It waved its antennae madly in desperation, and Arthur dropped his chopsticks in surprise. Carolyn caught them deftly and returned them to his plate, giving him the most sympathetic look she was willing to allow onto her face. Arthur nodded miserably and resumed his efforts, whispering apologies to the lobster whenever his father wasn't paying attention.  
  
Carolyn twirled her chopsticks, imagining (in gory detail) ramming them through Gordon's eyes and into his brain, and wondered what on earth they served as pudding in this perverted place.  
  
In fact, pudding was fish-shaped batter cases filled with adzuki-bean custard (presumably intended to resemble blood, although it was more pink than red). All in all, something of an anticlimax.  
Gordon did, to his credit, leave a fairly generous tip. Carolyn added to it all the same, since no amount of money was really enough to compensate the staff for their tolerance of Gordon Shappey.  
  
Later that night, the Shappey family having walked back to the car and driven home in a silence that could have been sliced and spread on toast, Carolyn saw Arthur off to bed (with the promised Toblerone and profuse apologies, assuring him that she'd had no idea what sort of restaurant it was or she'd have put her foot down and refused to bring Arthur there) then began yet another screaming match with Gordon, responding to his vicious insults with equal vigour and more wit.  
It ended, as usual, with thrown objects (Carolyn won, hitting Gordon in the paunch with a cuckoo clock) and death threats (Carolyn reluctantly conceded that Gordon's “I'll pump up the pressure in the water pipes so's when you flush the dunny or take a shower, it'll burst into shrapnel and pierce your black and shrivelled heart - if you have one” did beat her “I will fill the house with gas while you slumber on unawares”, at least in terms of originality).  
Arthur had long since developed the ability to sleep through these fights (except when they came near his room).  
  


** ***NOW*** **

  
“Arthur, are you all right?”  
  
Arthur emerged from his reverie, shaking his head and blinking. He looked around, seemingly disorientated, his eyes finally alighting on Douglas' takeaway box.  
  
“Sorry, Douglas, I don't think sushi agrees with me,” he said in his usual bright and cheery tones, before picking up his last slice of pizza and taking a large bite in order to erase the lingering taste of raw prawn.  
  
“Big portions, but rather leathery? That _is_ something of a risk with airport conveyor-belt sushi,” Douglas joked.  
  
“You stole that from _Mock The Week_ ,” Carolyn scolded, looking smug.  
  
“I _paraphrased_ it, and I never claimed ownership.”  
  
While the older members of MJN Air bickered back and forth, Martin leaned round them and looked at Arthur with concern.  
  
“Oh, did you want this last slice of pizza? I'm sorry, Skip! I-”  
  
“No, Arthur, it's fine, I'm full, really. Listen, are you _sure_ you're okay?”  
  
“I'm fine, Skip, really. I just don't like prawns unless they're cooked. Although actually, they don't taste of much when they're cooked, but prawn crackers _do_ , even though surely there's less prawn in a prawn cracker than there is in a prawn? And Herc brought round some pretend prawns for vegetarians, and Mum wouldn't eat them because she said that they were made of goodness-knows-what, so there were _loads_ left for me, and _those_ tasted more like prawns than prawns do even though they don't have _any_ prawn in them. I wonder why?”  
  
“Actually, I _think_ that if you, er, were to take all the _water_ out of a prawn, there'd be less actual _prawn_ left over than there is in... well, a prawn-sized _amount_ of prawn cracker. Possibly.”  
  
“Oh, thanks Skip!... But what about Herc's pretend prawns?”  
  
“You'd, um, have to ask Herc about that, I suppose. I only know about planes, Arthur, remember?”  
  
“No you don't, Skip! If you _only_ knew about planes, you wouldn't be able to play word games at _all_. Or drive your van. Or eat. Or -”  
  
“Yes, Arthur, I get the picture...”  
  
“...without any sort of referencing, therefore you have committed theft of intellectual property like the career criminal which you are!” Carolyn finished, leaving Douglas grumbling and snarling.  
Martin backed away and made a mental note to be very careful around Douglas for the next hour or so.  
  
  


** ***TWO HOURS LATER*** **

  
Arthur stuck his head around the door to the flight deck.  
  
“Douglas? This is probably a _really_ silly question -”  
  
“Not _much_ of a change from your usual programming, then.”  
  
“Sorry, Douglas, I'll shut up.”  
  
“No, it's fine, I'm used to it. It might even be vaguely entertaining. It _certainly_ cannot possibly be more boring than this endless cloud below us, which seems to be even more unnecessarily huge than Russia. Go ahead, Arthur.”  
  
“Oh, okay. Erm... oh, I remember now. Have you ever eaten sushi that wasn't quite dead?”  
  
“Firstly, Arthur, _sushi_ refers to the vinegared rice mixture, not the seafood component. I rather think that you mean _sashimi_.”  
  
“Sorry...”  
  
“Not to worry, it's a very common mistake to which even clever people sometimes fall prey.”  
  
“Oh, thanks Douglas!”  
  
“As do stupid ones, far more often. Secondly, I have never eaten _anything_ that wasn't _completely_ dead. To quote a rather famous wit – despite his somewhat dubious behaviour towards his stepchildren - 'I want my food dead. Not sick, not wounded – _dead_.'”  
  
“Oh!... Do most people who like, um, sashay-thing -”  
  
“Sashimi, Arthur?”  
  
“Yes, that – do most people who like it not like the alive sort?”  
  
“I'm fairly certain of that, Arthur. Certainly, the non-Japanese sashimi fans usually prefer it dead. Live seafood in general has mostly remained an Asian tradition.”  
  
Arthur looked rather surprised, but very relieved. “Oh, okay. I just wondered. Thanks, Douglas!” He strolled happily out of the flight deck.  
  
“What do you think could have got him wondering about _that_?” asked Martin, looking baffled.  
  
Douglas thought for a moment, then glared at the cloud below as though it had mentioned brown sauce. “If it was what – or rather _who_ – I think it was, I shall be adding another Cruel And Hilariously-Ironic Punishment to my list of Things To Do To Gordon Shappey Should I Ever Have Only Months To Live.”  
  
“Er... right.” Martin thought about this. “Any idea what that punishment might be?”  
  
“I think I'll cut him open, remove a small piece from each of his major organs, sew him back up, then make him eat the pieces. Raw. _Without_ soy sauce.”  
  
“Nice,” said Martin approvingly. “Do you have a _lot_ of this sort of thing planned for him, then?”  
  
“Oh, not just for _him_!” Douglas exclaimed. “He's not _that_ important. Longest list so far is the second former Mrs Richardson's, by _quite_ some way.”  
  
Martin slowly moved away from Douglas.  
  
“Don't _panic_ , Martin. Your list is only three items long -”  
  
Martin's face drained of colour at Douglas' confirmation of his fears.  
  
“- which are, in order, 'Burn that hat', 'Put a non-hypothetical live otter in the flight deck', and 'Coerce you into using casual dialogue to Karl at ATC'.”  
  
“...Really?”  
  
“Yes, of _course_ , Martin! If I only have a few months, I'm not going to waste time torturing anyone who isn't at least _severely_ annoying. You're only _moderately_ annoying these days, since it's so fun to humiliate you and win the cheese tray.”  
  
“Er...thank you. I suppose. Yes, definitely _thank you_ , in fact.”  
  
  


** ***EPILOGUE: ONE WEEK LATER*** **

  
Douglas examined the small frozen lobster which stuck out like a sore thumb among the batch of fish obtained in today's “exchange of gifts” (no fishcakes this time, however).  
  
“Well, I'm feeling flush, so I'm very generously going to offer to share this lobster with you lesser mortals. A taste of the high life! Martin will probably be overwhelmed.”  
  
“I don't want any,” snapped Martin.  
  
“I don't care, you're having some. I want to see the effect it has. My money's on 'fainting with joy'.”  
  
Arthur nervously raised a hand. “Er... I really don't want any either, Douglas, thank you. Sorry.”  
  
“No? Arthur Shappey is _refusing free food_? Has the world turned upside-down? Shall we shortly be observing buttercups buzzing after the bee, boats on land, and churches on sea?”  
  
“I just don't like it, sorry Douglas...”  
  
Carolyn returned from the loo. “Arthur? What have you been saying to him, flying monkeys?”  
  
“I think he may be ill, Carolyn. He's just refused _free_ food.”  
  
Carolyn looked genuinely worried. “Really? What sort of food?”  
  
“I was feeling magnanimous, so I decided to share this lobster with -”  
  
“Douglas Richardson, how you have managed – in a _single_ week – to discover _both_ of Arthur's... seafood dislikes is incomprehensible!”  
  
“Hmm... I have an idea. Martin, come here a moment.”  
  
Martin backed away on instinct. “What? No -”  
  
Douglas headbutted Martin (fairly gently, and it was cushioned by Martin's hat).  
  
“OW! What was _that_ for?!”  
  
“In case we'd accidentally exchanged my good luck for your bad. Just trying to swap them back.”  
  
“Oh, I saw the film about that!” chirped Arthur, his cheeriness back to its usual scale-breaking levels. “But in the film, to swap luck they had to kiss.”  
  
Douglas raised an eyebrow and smirked knowingly at Martin.  
  
Martin ran out of the Portakabin with his arms over his (beetroot-coloured) face, and promptly tripped over a drain-cover, falling flat on his face. His hat fell off and blew away; Martin scrambled upright and scurried after it.  
  
“Oh, false alarm, it would seem. The distribution of luck between the pilots of MJN Air appears to be normal after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Coming the raw prawn” is Australian slang for “kidding” - equivalent to “having you on”/”pulling your leg”.
> 
> “Madeline Moment” is a reference to "Á La Recherché Du Temps Perdu".
> 
> The airport isn't based on any real airport. The pizzeria is vaguely based on the Pizzaman takeaway at my old university, which was part of a chain, but I have no idea whether they have branches in any airports. They do indeed offer kebab pizza, duck pizza, and a choose-your-own-toppings option.
> 
> The sushi Arthur eats is an ebi nigiri.
> 
> The Dancers restaurant is entirely fictional and isn't set in any particular part of Australia. The dishes it serves, however, are entirely real – mainly from Japanese odorigui cuisine, i.e. seafood which is at least still moving and preferably still alive. Pretty much everything I know about them is courtesy of Google, YouTube or Wikipedia, so please let me know if there are any mistakes and I'll correct them!
> 
> Live seafood is banned in Australia. I'm not sure when this law was passed – I couldn't find a date for it online. Hopefully later than 1987! If not, well, that's why this restaurant is down a back alley and has no obvious outward identifiers.
> 
> Sorry if Gordon's accent is badly rendered. I did my best to imitate how he speaks in "St Petersburg", without over-exaggerating.
> 
> The prawns are odori ebi - “dancing prawns”. No, not “drunken shrimp”. That's a Chinese dish, though very similar.
> 
> The lobsters are served as ikizukuri – live sashimi.
> 
> The dancing-squid rice bowl (katsu-ika-odori-don) is a pile of rice, vegetables, salmon-roe and similar things, topped with most of a squid. The squid's mantle (“head”) has been cut off, sliced and added to the rice etc., but the tentacles (still attached to the stub of the mantle) are still whole. Because it's too freshly dead for rigor mortis to have taken effect, adding soy-sauce will stimulate the nerves and cause the tentacles to writhe – this seems to be something to do with electrolytes in the soy-sauce mimicking nerve signalling.
> 
> The fish-shaped batter cases filled with adzuki-bean custard are taiyaki, a traditional Japanese dessert. 
> 
> The airport conveyor-belt sushi joke is indeed paraphrased from "Mock the Week". Naughty, Douglas!
> 
> Fake prawns for vegetarians, made by the Linda McCartney company, used to be available in Tesco. They might still be, but they aren't in my local branch.
> 
> The “rather famous wit” is of course Woody Allen.
> 
> Douglas' joke about “buttercups buzzing after the bee” etc. is a reference to an old English nursery rhyme, "The World Turned Upside Down".
> 
> The film Arthur mentions is "Just My Luck", starring Lindsay Lohan. I haven't actually seen it.
> 
> No, that last bit isn't intended as pre-slash. It's just Douglas being a wind-up merchant as usual, to make Martin panic so that he'll do something daft which Douglas will find mildly amusing.


End file.
